Promises make people brave for the wrong reasons.
They suggest safety where none exists, permanence where change is inevitable. Here, no promises are offered. And because of that, something quieter, heavier, and more durable begins to endure.
The city wakes into the absence the storage left behind.
Not emptiness.
Space.
The building that held the crates smells faintly of grain and rain-soaked wood. Marks on the floor remain where heavy loads once rested. No one rushes to clean them. They are not scars.
They are memory.
The shadow coils, attentive.
What endures is often what we don’t erase.
People pass through the space differently now.
Slower.
More aware of how quickly use turns into assumption.
Someone pauses in the doorway and asks, “Can we put the carts back here?”
Another
